


Thunder

by milgrom



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-07
Updated: 2013-09-07
Packaged: 2017-12-25 21:57:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/958054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milgrom/pseuds/milgrom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was a gift for a friend - Our D&D characters "dealing" with a particularly bad thunderstorm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thunder

She held him, long spidery fingers digging into his collar. Her eyes clenched tight opened slightly and those saucer, silver eyes looked frightful. Full lips quivered, dimples quirked and her skin shivered with gooseflesh. To placate the small woman, he had a strong arm around her waist and he allowed her to hide a round face in his chest. The thunder and rains had shocked her quite – it was often he forgot she had only been upon the surface less than a year.

“How long,” her little voice trembled. “Inalis –” her throat tightened and heart beat a hummingbird pace through her linen shift. Lightning cracked and shook the ground, she screamed and held him tighter. The thunder followed next, a deep rumble that he counted in six solid beats overhead. “Lloth take me,” she cursed, though she spoke further in her native tongue and the rest she said Inalis did not understand.

“It is just a summer storm, girl.” Months now they had tracked her sisters, through forest and vale, sun and snow, fall, winter and into spring. This was her first summer on the surface lands. Her first lark away from the city. Why he had taken her, he did not know. He told himself it was duty, that it was nothing more than duty and the oath he spoke for his liege.

It could not have been the look of fury in her silver eyes, or the city street and purple sunset mirrored on obsidian skin. The hair like starlight he witnessed cut roughly with a relic dagger, fluttering about a round face and dimpled cheeks, full lips pulled into a harsh grimace while the three witches held her. The blood thirsty scream, guttural, primal from a thin, frail throat the so usually held a childish, wondrous and infuriating tone.

“You were unworthy,” they had bellowed, three voices in unison. One, tall and a face lined by years of toil spoke words of the Deep – they sounded lodged in her throat. “Exiled, dead, surfacer’s whore,” as Vahlia had explained after her bloody rage. They scratched her face and arms, though now the scars were silver threads cut like map lines.

It was not the steady hands he knew for healing magic turning so boldly and fully to fire. The way her small body, always moving fell still and breathless. The full motion of sinuous muscle turning in anger and brutality, reducing one to ash and a shower of ilk. How she howled, covered in her sister's blood, skin smoldering like hot coal. How quickly the melee had begun and how quickly it had ended – another sharp crack of lightning, thunder and wind slanted rain battered canvas; she wept and whimpered his name, over and over again.

But it was not that. This held no meaning, just comfort for a creature who had plagued his steps for months. It was not the sweet sound of his name in breathless tones, the need he could feel exuding from her skin.

“The quakes were like this,” she began to ramble, much like usual, fast, accented and pitched high and never like he imagined a Drow to sound. “They take cities, swallow them down so deep nay a thing shan't grow.” The common tongue became slurred, chattered and smaller with every word, her body folding upon itself and against his naked chest. “It's louder out here. Rain comes through me roof back home.” Funny, he thought, that his city she thought of as hers.

He remained silent, allowing her this one reprieve if it meant he would be left to sleep the last hour of night in peace. The summer storms were beginning and soon the trade routes would become thick with outlaws. They would need to find her remaining sisters, end them swiftly and return to the city. Summers were busy and often violent, and these personal affairs were wearing thin on his patience and tactical mind.

She reached for his other arm, tersely at his back and pulled it around her waist and shifted – he was aware of her now, in another way than the annoying, useless healer mage who barraged him daily with questions. Smooth, bare legs, full thighs and womanly hips were wrapped in his long arms. She had risen up, moon-shade, saucer wide eyes were pleading for a solution he did not have. Too much time, he thought, he had allowed her to infect him with her ridiculous flair.

“Is it always so –” she spoke through grit teeth and was interrupted by another harsh burst of lightning and thunder that matched her heart he had often wished to rip from her chest. It was different – the sound of blood pumping through her veins, so close to his own that they held influence. His brackish water eyes found hers, easily and an unconscious hand, calloused well from years with a broadsword found her chin so simply.

“Inalis,” his name again, serious in those small hours between day and night – inhale, exhale, the silence of stillness before he knew the next flash and hammer would come overhead again. The storm was forgotten, his duty and malice, memories of how her death would have coated richly his plated hands. All his spite for her begrudged worthiness of such a simpering, brave and wild creature.

“It is just a storm,” he said again, softer, an octave lower and more affectionate than he intended. But how her lips pursed in question, orbs of molten moonlight seeking feature, expression and meaning behind his actions. “It will pass.” Comforting, for him, lost of his usual dry tone and terse tongue.

Crack, shiver and light amid the coming dawn. By sunrise they would give chase once more, an hour or two there would be thick paths, littered with all manner of brush and thorn, creature and demon meaning to take them. Again that whimper, that swoon, that pressure of his skin to hers, quickening blood with pace in time with rolling thunder. Humid air rising from them, sticking skin to thin linens, leaving nothing to his imagination.

Small thing, pretty thing, woman that he did not see before – his thoughts were gone from duty, place and posture and caught fully in eyes, lips and texture of her dark and shiver risen skin. His mouth covered hers quickly, silencing whatever fool utterance she would plead so fetchingly. A taste of ice over passion and the hard honey cake they had for dinner. The heavy air of the summer lands drove them to fever pitch and clothes were discarded in an instant. They kissed again, rough and clumsy, years between them gone long unpracticed. It was as though he could read her thoughts, see them breaking, crackling and leaving her mind. A dozen memories of her watching him from his peripheral, the way small hands, always steady, precise and at the ready, took to his wounds tenderly. How she always found him in a crowd –

A purr from the back of her throat at his tongue exploring her mouth drove him to bring her closer than they had been before. Her back arched as he rolled her, pinning his waist against hers. The rumble of thunder seemed to come from her throat and legs slipped apart and brought him insistently and urgently toward her. Flushed, wanting, panting breaths came against his neck as thin, lightly muscled arms plied at his back. His teeth marked her then, bringing out a keening moan, tightening thighs and his name spilling wanton along her tongue.

Hard iron hands dragged a tremble across abdomen and hips, and the muscle there twitched at his territorial path. A fresh prickle of skin followed his trail, learning her, memorizing sinew and bone. He would have her attention, he would draw out this pathetic showing of a self-proclaimed and fabled priestess of her patron goddess.

Haughty, curious and mad she was, driving him deeper into misery and madness, warping him to this fashion now that he must have her, quiet her – own her. Her body tightened against him as he found the peak of her hips and marched artfully to a heaving breast. Roughly he marked her with hands that knew anvil & hammer, steel and blood in equal measure, all the while basking in the sounds and fury of her sinuous and ashen form. A long leg wrapped at his waist and he could smell her then – conquered so soon, he mused.

“Inalis,” she sputtered, “Please,” so meek and lacking a boisterous, infuriating voice that he knew too well.

“Do not speak,” an order she followed with ecstasy spreading across her mouth. Her face was flushed, gleaming in low light from the sweat of their closeness. He would make her wait, he would see her skin shudder and beg fully for him to have her. But his own body was taut and ready, a primal reaction he buried so deep in a stoic nature. To see her this way, to know he will never forget the warmth, the feeling of time between them halting – quickly, quickly he entered fully, they matched sharp breaths and her helpless sighs shuddered against him.

Muscles inside her held him now, her scent of lavender oils and solid stone filling him, emptying his mind of everything but this – “Oh,” she cried out, rigid flesh, soft belly quivering as her hips rolled and lapped and kept him. The lightning that cracked the sky was not noticed, but the thunder added rhythm and time. He took her hands then pinning them above her head, forcing her to arch his back in a perfect shape. He was granted purchase then and drove deeper inside her. It was simple to keep her hands in one of his, the other addicted to the feel of her skin, the slick sweat along the smooth juncture below her navel.

A sharp hiss, pain and pleasure both, his name again he could taste on her tongue. Between his teeth he took her bottom lip and moved along jawline, earlobe and neck. Salty sweat he tasted on her, need of him, of her submission. The elven man, large for his kind with sunkissed and muscled skin looked stark against her, odd with her unique features. She resounded his name as a mantra and he took her, closer, deeper and farther to the reaches that pulsed within her and he kept silent, in cold control of her simpering.

“Inalis,” punctuated musically by a pressure and flood against his skin now slick and flushed. “Say my name,” A roar of thunder, lightning and again she moaned so deeply – “Say it, say my name, Inalis, please –”

A groan, again the thunder, again the lightning, again the shuddering moans from her or him, he could not tell. Such musical sounds - breathless pleading, whimpers, moans and the feeling of flesh together and whole. Though his years of martial practice left a will of iron, there was little left to unravel now. He heard her, far away, whispers that surrounded in a thousand versions of his name. 

“Vahlia,” he croaked with teeth latched to her neck, rippling sweet convulsions that spurred him toward the hollow of her collarbone. Again, she keened, again he buried himself inside her. “Vahlia,” her name again, joining the chorus of his own. 

Energy flooded her then and she slipped held hands free and rolled him on his back. It was not a smooth motion and he felt a sharp sting of rocks against his back. But there was little care for that, as hands attached to ribs. She rocked, sweet gasps and shudders filled his sight and ears. Poised above him now, kitten grin a glowing visage that urged a groan and pleasured hiss from his mouth. He rose up, meeting her, wrapping around her again. 

There was a desire, a need to be close, to feel breath, skin and taste mingle together. Something about her, from the first day he met her until now had been leading to this moment. He never realized before, never allowed himself to see her in such a way.

Now, above him, hips rocking in sweet waves and peppered with her slender fingers twining his hair. That grin he met, teeth clashing, nipping and --

Sparks danced behind his eyes, fluttering heart beats as he traced fingers over cheeks. How they were loathe to disengage from one another, even with the soft murmured purrs settled between their sweat soaked skin. His hands brushed back her hair, held her face and studied this creature joined to him. Thoughts stayed away, keeping their logical whispers at bay while she stretched and wiggled and tightened. 

“Hm,” a coloring of her cheeks under his fingers brought a rare smile upon his face. “I like this,” she says softly -- gone the fear, gone the frightened whimpers that had plagued her an hour or two before. She rubbed her cheek into his palm and wrapped arms around his neck. There was the affectionate creature who cooked for him, tended wounds of his and his men, delivered the city’s children and healed the sick. 

Such a strange thing, he thinks, that once he meant to kill her.


End file.
